Defiled Fate
by Lyssa Terald
Summary: When Surana makes a mistake and is taken from the Blight prematurely there are far reaching consequences that no one can predict. Warnings for torture, possible non-con. Not a Fenris/Surana romance. Disclaimer: I do not own, nor ever shall own, the DA universe in any form and I make no money off this.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: In no way do I own the world of Dragon Age or its respective stories. This is a product of fanfiction on which I make no money.

Authors note: I apologize to those that have already read this part in its original format with 125 words, but I was not happy with the vagueness with which I began the story and felt it necessary to expand upon the finer points. So, I hope you enjoy this whether or not you have read it before.

* * *

When Anora sent us to the Alienage, the sewage in the streets alone made me glad enough I had been taken from this place when I was so young and given to the Circle. We may have been caged within stone, but at least it was a gilded cage compared to the squalor of dilapidated buildings and cowering shadows. I'd had freedom of choice where they had none. It had almost, _almost_, made me feel grateful to the Templars.

The sight of mages openly wearing their staffs and wearing oddly decorated robes made me wary, but it was when Shianni told us what had taken place that it should have set off all the alarm bells in my head. It didn't. Instead of being cautious like an intelligent person would have, I approached them, intent on finding out what this spell they used was.

_Hessarian's mercy, _the "healer" had exclaimed upon seeing me. _How long have you been ill, woman? You should have come here days ago!_

It had been an opportunity too good to pass up. An I was strong, a mage that fought with steel and magic. There were only a few of them-or so I'd thought at the time. Too many innocents would have been hurt had we engaged them openly, so-despite Zevran catching my arm and trying to quietly warn against my decision-I had acted along with it and allowed them to take me into the hospice…alone. I allowed myself to be led into the snake's nest without so much as a backwards glance.

We could have gone around, should have engaged. The consequences would have been so much less! They identified me as a Warden, overwhelmed me, clapped mana draining chains on me, and dragged me off.

Idiot, hair brained, foolish, _foolish_ child. That's what I am. I endangered the whole of Fereldan for the sake of pride and the lives of a few. How many of those that were spared the initial confrontation that day actually survived to see another day? How many were taken in by the slavers? How many of my companions survived that day? I don't know. _I don't know._

Alistair and Riordan are the only Grey Wardens left in the whole of Fereldan. I hope, by the Maker, that they will have more sense than I do. My fate, whatever it may be, is to be decided once the slave ship docks in Tevintar.


	2. Chapter 1

The steady rolling of the ship, creaking of the wood, and moans of the dying has become almost a comfort in the three months to me so when the change comes, it is abrupt and painful. I am yanked from the cot where I have been laying and herded into a group with other elven women. One of the slaver mages zaps our bare feet with lightning to make our tired bodies move. Another slaver intentionally shoves another woman into me and I catch her, brace her weight on my body, and we stagger forward together.

The woman clings to me all the harder when we are driven away from the docks and into the dead of night where we can see nothing but the shadows of buildings rising above us. I can hear her muttering prayers into the night as we run forward. Part of me hopes there are a few souls out there in the night brave and stupid enough to attempt an ambush of the slavers, but this is Tevinter. Slave runs are a natural flow of their daily lives.

By the time we are driven to their destination, the sun has begun to rise in the east and my calves are burning with the exertion. Chains clinking around our feet, they drive us through a door to join others. The woman releases me and creeps into the shadows where she curls up and begins sobbing. Part of me wants to sit by her and lie that we'll be alright, but the sensible part of my mind dictates that I find a quiet spot to rest. Come a few hours, I will be auctioned off. That is the way it goes, or so I've been led to believe. I find a relatively quiet clean spot on the hay to lay down and try to rest, but sleep evades me.

Three months in transit is a long time to think. My companions from the Blight will not come. We were never that close. Mismatched individuals drawn together by the fires of war is all we were. Sten with his Asala in hand again will have a clear chance at redemption. Oghren will likely find some alehouse and regale those that will listen with stories of the times we almost got ourselves killed. Wynne will undoubtedly be forced to return to the Circle. Alistair will likely have been made king, maybe even rule at Anora's side. Morrigan will have vanished into nothing. Leliana will have returned to the Chantry. Shale will probably have returned to squishing birds or chosen to stay with Sten. Zev…my breath catches at the memory of him…Zevran and Barkspawn might be the only ones to try and follow me.

I wish them happiness and hope they survive this war. _Maker, hear me as I sit here within this darkness, please watch after them. Lead them not down my path and give them life. Let them follow me not and find strength in each other and-_

Light splits the darkness of the holding cell and the others scatter. They draw us forth with prods and lightning from the dank, smelly straw and cramped walls. Sunlight burns my eyes. We are arranged according to our strengths. I am the only elven mage.

The males are sold first, prodded over and inspected as the sun climbs steadily higher into the sky. Sweat trickles down my back, straining the now ragged robes I have worn since before the Alienage. I eye the cool water that is passed around the buyers by their guards and servants. _Magisters_, some distant part of my mind supplies. These buyers are mages that are called Magisters in Tevinter.

Eventually, they work their way through the other elven women and children. The cries of mothers and children being separated are especially painful, but a sight I have to turn my face from and close my ears to. Finally, it's my turn. Silence falls as I am described. They call me a prize, say I'm spirited, gloat about the stamina of a Grey Warden. The crowd takes turns to poke, prod, inspect and pull at my hair. In this, silence is my only defense and so I tolerate their curious looks and wandering hands.

Circle, sneer, inspect, repeat. These Magisters are all the same. They are wary but cannot resist. Usually, they would not deign to come to an auction themselves. They would send a servant, but there has never been a Grey Warden elf-mage auctioned off before. A rare commodity they call me. They watch with hooded eyes and I stand tall. I am not theirs. I will not break. One chance is all I need.  
Bids go up, offers are exchanged.

"What can the little Fereldan do?"

The speaker is a man whose eyes I cannot bear to meet. This Magister is both haughty and cruel, dark and night. Power and arrogance flow around him like a second skin. He is accompanied by only a silver haired elven male with strange tattoos and a human female with a pinched face. The others shy away, ensconced within their own guards.

The slavers selling me falter. They never had enough balls to get close enough to figure out where my strengths lay, what magics I am best with. All they know is that when they captured me, I looked more warrior than mage and fought with steel and magic.

Mutters rise, but he only laughs, head thrown back and dark hair falling from his face. A smile lights his face, but it is not kind and it reminds me of a snake. "Perhaps my Fenris could help with a demonstration," he offers and his elf eyes me, sizes me up.

They quibble for a while over the details of what is to be done, but the demonstration is agreed upon. Strength against strength. Steel against steel. My bonds are not loosened. My magic stays leashed. What I am left with are the sustained spells that were in place when the bonds were snapped into place: a Fade Shield and Rock Armor. My strength is more than it should be, but will not be enough. I have been imprisoned and starved for three months. This elf-warrior looks like a favored pet, one sure to be well fed and rested.

He is lithe and his muscles are supple without the bulk of a human. A warrior forged from battle over many years. The Magisters give us enough space for a horde of darkspawn to traipse through unhampered. Pampered, cowardly things they are.

As they relieved me of my own enchanted sword and dagger upon capture, I am without weapons. For a long moment, the slavers argue softly over who is to give up their weapons. Eventually, I am given a sword and dagger. Whose they are, I have no idea as this Fenris has been occupying my attention for the better part of a minute as he just stares at me.

Taking a moment to inspect my weapons, I frown. Their weight is not balanced and I frown at them, flip the dagger and test their edges. Sharp, but only steel. They would do nothing against magic users. I am forced to reconsider my opinion of them. Pampered and cowardly, but not stupid.

I could kill one, maybe two, but never an entire room full of them, before they got their shields up. I would be dead six different ways before I hit the ground. I am rather fond of breathing. Another chance less suicidal will present itself.

He's watching me, I can feel it. This Fenris is waiting for me to make the first move. A broadsword is unsheathed and gripped between both hands, but the tip rests against the ground like this is a spar. I almost scowl, but it does no good. He can very likely wait all day and I have very little left to give this fight. If I time it right, I can end this with a few choice hits.

When I move, he moves. We circle in, feint, touch blade to blade to scrape the edge, and circle again. He bridges the distance between us in one fluid stride, my movements to respond are sluggish, but his blow his parried and he catches my dagger on one gauntlet. I spring away, feint to the side and strike at his other. He uses the hilt to parry my sword. The dagger flashes towards his cheek, catches him, draws blood.

He shoves me back, swings the blade, catches me with the flat, and knocks the wind from me. I strike the ground, roll, and scramble away from the overhead stroke that strikes where I was just a moment before. Dropping the dagger, I hold my side, breathing heavily. His eyes are startlingly green as he watches me pace to the outer limit of his reach.

He's aiming high with more force than speed in the moments when I get too close. A dagger is a weapon born for the personal kills, but not something I need right now. Right now, agility is the only thing that will save me this fight. Right shoulder, just beneath the armpit. It's an opening in the way he holds himself, the way he positions his blade with his elbow cocked.

I'm moving and then he is, too, and I realize the mistake. The markings aren't for show. They flare lyrium blue and he blurs from existence. He appears again to my left and it's too late. I twist, trying to turn to meet him, but even as I lock hilts with him the markings are flaring blue again and his hand is reaching towards me. His fingers touch my Fade Shield and slide right through. I go rigid at the feeling of metal touching my own skin before fading into a cool, shivering expanse of dreams and nothing.

His green eyes widen in understanding. Then, he withdraws his hand from my Fade Shield and I am left gasping at the loss of support holding my up. I drop to my knees, the sword only loosely held in my hands. Using one foot, he slides the blade away and rests the tip of his broadsword at my throat. "Yield," he says steadily.

There is a ringing, singular clapping sound and we are startled from the bubble that had been ours. It is his master, the cold eyed snake of a human. "Oh, well done, Fenris," he says. "You were very well restrained this time. No organs or anything ripped out."

Fenris sheaths his broadsword and looks like he's torn between annoyance and delight at the praise. "Of course, master, it is as you wished."

"Very well, then I offer up a hundred gold for her," the Magister said and a hushed silence fell over the small crowd. It wasn't the highest bid that had been made for me thus far, but it appeared that no one was going to challenge him over it. Whoever this human is, whatever his desire for me is, he isn't a mage to be trifled with.


	3. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own, nor ever shall own, the DA universe in any form and I make no money off this.

* * *

I have never simply wanted to kill someone, to sink my blades into their skin and watch them writhe in pain as they die. _Death happens,_ Zevran once told me. He said a lot of things about being an assassin, but taking satisfaction in the power of the kill is something that left an impression on me. I can still hear his silken voice curling around the words_, It is not pleasure, per se. Nothing sexual. It is more a sense of satisfaction, a feeling of power. Does that make sense?_

It does now. Curled up in this Maker forbidden dungeon wearing nothing but chains and shivering against the alternating hot and cold flashes, I understand. It is not the desire to kill that makes me look with new understanding on what he said. Nor is it the newest bruises and cuts I have acquired today. It is the slow, steady ache that has settled into my stomach, the burn of swallowed screams, and the taste of bile on my lips after being forcibly held down and used. Understanding comes with the grasping of hands I would never willingly let touch me, with the grunts and moans of men whose skin I would sear for looking at me with lust, and the cold, maniacal gleam in Danarius's eyes as he watches everything.

He's doing it to "break me in" and teach me _respect_. He alternates these spectacles with nightmares and taking samples of my blood. There are moments of relative silence, like this, where I am left in peace, but those come before the torture where he cuts runes into my skin and has Hadriana heal them over. I don't know what they're for, but they're always the same, looping scrawls that look almost like words but aren't.

The light patter of leather against stone is always the cue that Danarius is near, that something is about to happen. I hear it, now, and force my tired muscles to move, so that I can at least sit and face him when he does enter the cell. There is a way to end this, Danarius told me the first time. All I have to do is say _Master_ and beg nicely, but I won't. I can't, not for a man like this.

_Death happens,_ Zevran told me once. _There is a certain artistry to the deed, the pleasure of sinking your blade into their flesh and knowing that their life is in your hands._ If I ever get that chance, if I survive this, I'll do more than sink a blade into his flesh and take satisfaction for that kill. Danarius will answer for every hurt, every sorrow, every pain, every death if I have any say to his fate.

* * *

Time is a sluggish thing that is marked in fading bruises and the periods between _sessions_. Danarius has used ten different approaches in attempting to break me. Every approach has been tried exactly six times before switching to something new. With the conclusion of this session and the way Hadriana pursed her lips at me, it's time for an eleventh approach.

Sessions are split up with the carving of runes into my skin, blood samples, and the rotation of the guards he brings down to use me. There are typically three guards to each period of violation and no more than nine in total. Normally, Danarius carves the runes, takes my blood, brings the guards down, and then tortures me for a bit. If I consider the procession of those four events one day, then I have been in Danarius' custody for two months.

The thought makes my chest constrict and breathing difficult. Five months away from the Blight, away from Fereldan, of not knowing, of wondering, of waiting. Zevran, Alistair, Wynne, Shale, Oghren, Sten, Leliana, Morrigan, Barkspawn. How did the Landsmeet turn out? Did they survive? Did they defeat the Blight where I could not?

No. Stop.

Don't wonder. Don't want. Don't think. Memories make the pain unbearable. Knowledge in what has been lost, of what could be, of what can still be threaten to unmake me. They will not come. Do not dwell. There is no hope, no chance. Salvage sanity and plan for survival.

_Zev._

The press of skin, crooked smile, golden eyes. Don't remember. Don't recall. Dreams meant for another life, another heart.

Five months of wondering, of waiting, of _wanting_. There has been no whisper of knowledge, no breath of hope to sustain. There has been only darkness and thoughts. How much more?

No. Stop. Sessions. The marking of time, the waiting for a moment of escape. The fading of bruises and passing of time. Runes carved into skin, the taking of blood, guards, and an eleventh approach. Don't wonder, don't want, don't think. Memories make it worse, make it complete. The absence is what is felt, not seen. They aren't coming. There is only Danarius and the next session, the eleventh approach.

* * *

It's different, this approach, like the snaking of vines through hair and the squeezing of fear, of breathless moments held within eternity. Sifting through and murmured words. An absence of pain. Shivering cold and memories, cherished moments drawn out and examined.

_Zev._

The press of skin, crooked smile, golden eyes. Kind words, teasing words. _Don't remember. Don't recall._ Dreams meant for another life, another heart. _Don't wonder, don't want, don't think,_ but I do, I do, I do. I want him, want what is ours, what we had in laughter and blood and steel, hard-fought, hard-won. Memories of everything, of nothing, of moments when I loved.

Understanding and tears, bitter rage. It sweeps through and snaps the spell. Blood magic. The creeping veins were blood magic winding through me, finding strength in the connection of my blood and the blood he took. Danarius stands over me, smiling, a dark promise. No words. Moments and memories relived and seen by another who should never have seen them.

He leaves. No runes, no blood taking, no guards. There won't be another session. He has all he needs. _Stay away, Zev. Stay far away. Stay safe. _I couldn't bear it if I lost him in more than miles and months.

* * *

A break in the pattern that makes me wary. Fenris has been sent instead of Danarius coming himself. I haven't seen the other elf since the _demonstration._ He isn't wearing his black armor or his blade. Instead he wears only simple clothes. Is this meant to be the balm after everything that has been done? Is he to be a new addition to the rotation of the guards?

His eyes are different. Their color makes my stomach churn. Gold where once they were vibrant green. _Zev._ A reminder, a promise. That's what it is. Will it fade? Is this even a permanent change to the pattern? Do I care?

I ponder that last one for a moment. No, I don't care. Fenris can come and go as he pleases so long as he does not bear Zevran's eyes. It makes me hostile and snappish towards him when he applies a balm to my bruises. He cleans my cell a little, asks nothing, and departs almost as quickly as he has come.

A choice. A moment of pride or the protection of all I had before. This reprieve Danarius gives me is meant for me to make a choice. Pain hasn't worked on me. Blood magic worked, but only to an extent. Zevran's eyes in another's face is all the indication of that I need. When Danarius comes again, what will I choose?

Zevran or pride? A sense of self or the safety of my lover?

Danarius has the resources to do anything. Tevinter is a place of sin and blood and horror. Magisters are the top of the food chain, slaves the bottom. Being an elf doesn't help matters. Zevran is a clever man and he'd find some way to survive even with the Crows after him, but…but Danarius would find him if he looked hard enough and without knowing who and what to look for, Zevran would have no chance.

All that I am, all that I could have been, all that I will be I would trade for him. The Blight brought us together and I tore us apart. Zevran or pride? There's really no choice at all to make.


	4. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: In no way do I own Dragon Age or its associated characters or Worlds or anything even remotely related to it.

* * *

"What is your choice, little Warden?" Danarius grows impatient, amplifies the electricity. No sound escapes me. I'll not give him that satisfaction. Not yet.

_A person is born: qunari, or human, or elven, or dwarf. He doesn't choose that, _Sten told me once.

Elven means lesser to humans. Oppression perpetuated by generations of slavery turned freedom barely acknowledged as more than lessers. We may not choose our race, our blood, but we make a conscious decision when we determine the worth of an individual, when we weigh their worth against our own. Societal influences or no, we still make the decision based on how we understand ourselves. Danarius' treatment speaks of self-entitlement, of self-importance, of _selfish_ desires.

_The size of his hands, whether he is clever or foolish, the land he comes from, the color of his hair: These are beyond his control. _

It is strange, the echo of those words. Never truer spoken, never more honest from one such as he. Sten did not understand the ways of different people, the weight of choice. Everything was predetermined in the Qun. He taught me that much. Women were not warriors. They did not fight or bleed or live as we Fereldans, as mages did. He seemed to think there was no concept of choice.

Screams that echo off the stone. The smell of burnt hair, of singed flesh. Oh, to be that simplistic in my own views of life. By the Maker, I wish I was that _ordinary_. The repetition of a question, an impatience that cannot seem to overcome the Magister's nature. The threat, the promise reiterated. Another round. The acquiescence. Begging. _Master._

It ends with tears and his smile. He knows he has won. There is nothing I would not do to see golden eyes never clouded over by pain, hate, rage, not again, never for me. Still, it continues. Still, there are more lessons to be taught.

_We do not choose, we simply are._

What happens to us is not simply part of existence, it is choice and blood and tears mixed with love and joy. The parts are not equal, they are not whole, but they define us, break us, make us more than we were. _Don't remember, don't recall_, but I do, I do. I won't let go of the choices I have made that brought me to this point, this twisted mage.

Golden eyes that crinkled at the corners in laughter. Full lips that never quite smiled. _Pain. Terror. Hold on, hold on._ Warmth that faded from one body to another, the press of darker skin to mine. Hard-fought, hard-won. _Love._

_We do not choose, we simply are._

How easy it would be to not fight against the kiss of cold metal, to let pain steal the essence of who I am. Not broken, not gone, but choice. Choice to love, choice to bleed, choice to remember. Survival to find a chance to break free, to kill the sickness that calls itself a _human mage_.

The pain ends, I'm still on my knees. Hadriana is applying a healing spell to the wounds, clucking over the fragility of elves. Eyes down, chin tucked into my chest, I cannot see her, nor him. The only indication of their location is the swish of robes, the patter of leather. There are more guards. I flinch at the touch that is applied to my arms, the sound of rattling chains. The links binding me to stone are cut away, dropped into a bag, taken away. On my wrists, the manacles remain.

"What a pretty pet you will make, little Warden," Danarius croons, long fingers sliding beneath my chin, lifting my eyes.

_Warden_. I stiffen. Words, memories, companions. Do they live? Thoughts for another time. Survival first. First step. Tone. City elves. They flinched back, spoke softly, tread lightly. Mimic. "What kind of pet…Master?" I ask voice cracking, soft.

His hand slides to my cheek and lightly strokes with his thumb. Flinch away. Too close, too intimate, not _golden eyes._ Pain blossoms, world tilts. Hissing, angry words. On my side, I curl around myself and watch him from beneath my lashes. He does not speak the language of spells, the magic would have already taken effect by now. They are not words I recognize. Cannot be spoken tongue of Fereldan. Different countries, different languages. Must be, has to be Tevintar. Why speak my tongue at the purchase?

The current stems and he settles into glaring at me. It softens and he kneels beside me, brushing my hair from my eyes. I want to bite him. Refrain. I was taught not to ingest poison as a child and that's all he is. "You made me hurt you, little Warden," he says, dark eyes dancing. "I've no desire to harm you further after all that it took to bring you to this point." _Lie._ "I want to give you a better life than what you had in that barbarian country, but I cannot do that if you will not accept me." _More lies._

Survival. One step at a time. "I…I am sorry…Master," I answer, the word like acid on my tongue. "I…I am…unaccustomed to…kindness…" _torture._

He doesn't try to stroke me again, just tucks my matted, dirty hair behind my ear. "Of course," he says sounding _indulgent_. Glancing up, he continues, "Hadriana, see to it that Fenris draws her a bath and fetches her some appropriate garments." The human woman bristles, but leaves to obey. He stands, backs away, says, "Stay," and leaves. Silence has never been so welcome, solitude never more a friendly companion. Vision blurs, chest tightens, breath in, breath out. It fades.

* * *

There are no words, there is nothing _to_ say to the situation. One elf that stands guard over another. One gender that watches the other bathe. One lyrium-enhanced warrior ensuring that a mage does not break free. There are several levels of humiliation and mockery to this…_predicament_…that make me almost want to laugh.

It's a servant's bath, has to be. Dirt scrubbed but still obviously ground into the tiles, walls a lackluster ivory. It's obviously not a room meant for guests. No worse than the places I've stayed in the last year, but the circumstances are…less than ideal. Beyond the door, there is the murmur of voices, the quiet shuffling of feet through the hall.

A servant, then?

He called me _pet._

He _touched_ me.

Likely, a serving whore with _special skills._ Elven, feminine, and delicate are a hard combination to resist. It will take a few months to earn a reputation, acquire the skills necessary for the finer touches. Then, he'll probably start using me to lure, reward, entice. Magisters play a game, if memory serves. They don't kill each other except in formal duels. Instead, they sneak and assassinate and such a method of using me would make for a one time use only. Too costly a method even for a dangerous rival. Information on enemies will be his target. That means outings to what passes for social events.

One of those may be the chance.

Fenris moves, instincts scream, water splashes. The vibrant green of his eyes are outlined in the blue of lyrium. His hand is on my shoulder, fingers digging into skin and flexing into the dreams of forever. My fingers rest against his throat, withholding air. Water ripples from the movements. He releases me first, fingers relaxing, hand sliding from my Fade Shield. He steps away, gives a satisfied nod and fixes his gaze just above my shoulder.

There are no words, there is nothing _to_ say to what happened…except…he's not quite what I expected in a guard dog. Somewhere, somehow, he made a choice and he's no longer _just_ a pretty pet with special abilities.


	5. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I own no part of the Dragon Age universe.

A/N: I've been trying for a weekly update, but this one was particularly difficult in coming together so I apologize for its lateness.

* * *

Never alone, always watched, no magic, lessons in a ceaseless cycle. _Remember, suppress, remember, suppress._ Everything held and lost makes this so much worse, so much better. Memory of times better, of times lost have beenthe anchor, the torment. Companions longed for even as they are driven from mind. Sten with his steady strength, Shale with its endless talk of _squishing_ birds, Morrigan with her barbed comments, Alistair with his humor, Oghren with his stench, Barkspawn with his odd finds, Wynne with her lectures, Leliana with her steady faith, and Zevran. I miss them all, with their flaws and their perfections.

What I could do with just _one _of them, let alone all of them. With them at my back we could take down Danarius and perhaps all of the Magisters, but I don't have them…_can't_ have them. They will be scattered by now, the Blight broken, and returning to their lives. Maker, I can only hope that is how it went. If they followed me, tried to find me, forgot the Blight for me…nothing would be worth the destruction of my homeland, not even my freedom.

Here, now, among the servants and the slaves, I have only my own two hands and the ever watchful gaze of Fenris. He knows of my sustained spells, the ones that the chains cannot suppress, the ones that draw continually on my reserves. Sometimes, he watches me with an indecipherable look and I remember the first time Danarius left us alone together, the moment when his fingers flexed into the dreams of forever. He cannot touch me when the Fade Shield is in place and yet he hasn't told Danarius, hasn't told Hadriana. What is it he wants? What will he demand for that knowledge?

* * *

The other slaves haven't a clue how to treat me. Some scrape by me, others ignore me. Isolation in words is common. Fenris is the only one to speak to me, the only one to try and teach me the language of Arcanum, native tongue of the Magisters. Time drags by in moments and footsteps, one breath and the next. Remembering is difficult, color has drained from the memories.

During one of the dinners that I serve at I fail to understand properly a command given by a guest. I thought he said, "Bring me the wine socks, gentle girl."

Wine socks? _Wine socks?_

I only stared dumbly at him. That was about the time Danarius realized I didn't understand half of what was said to me in Arcanum and that the other half was mostly interpreted. After my back was flayed open and the cuts tended to, one part of my day was set aside for Fenris to officially teach me the language. Fenris also took it upon himself to suggest that my physical training be accounted for.

It is tiresome, these practices. The repetition, the recital, the _memorization_. Far easier to roll and strike and jab and run than to practice the language of these barbarians. I can only be a little thankful that my training in the Tower included a very basic instruction in understanding Arcanum. Fenris has been my instructor in both the physical training as well as the learning of Tevinter's native language. He does not know how to write so I must learn by listening to him. It is a frustrating and slow progress and when Danarius tests my knowledge, he _always _finds something lacking and takes the opportunity to _teach me himself._

Those times with Danarius _attempting_ to be me to repeat the words while lightning courses through my veins are rather bearable compared to before, but I still learn nothing from him. Far be it from me to learn under such conditions. Still, attempting to learn Arcanum while getting smacked is counterproductive and the intermingling of Fereldan and Arcanum is a little disconcerting to hear when I do understand him.

Really, could he not just separate the two? It's not that I _need_ the combat training, but I've lost most of the muscle memory that Zev and Alistair drilled into me. I remember the training in my head, but trying to go through the motions that first time was like wading through water and tripping over the unseen stones embedded within the sands. Danarius is determined to see me proficient in both language and sword.

_Why?_

I've tried to puzzle out his purpose for it and I can come up with nothing better than he intends for me to double as a serving whore and guard. For the most part, he has not tried to touch me again and I _hope, pray,_ _believe_ he has no interest in me that way, but the way Fenris watches him sometimes, the way the other slaves watch him kills that hope and leaves cold fear in its wake. When eyes are shadowed by both a tired resignation and subservience, I don't hold out much hope for remaining untouched, not by him.

In the absence of these lessons, I eat with the other slaves and learn from them the ways to hold myself, how to hold a serving tray, pitch my voice to please, and the vices of the guards that we are to look after. These guards are the same dumb, crass, leering brutes that Danarius started with when he first purchased me. These are the humans, the men that I have been assigned to in the late hours of the night.

* * *

Three months I have carried on with learning, three months of bruises and snarling rages when I cannot do something as I remember, three months of exhaustion and serving at the dinners Danarius holds, and I have finally begun to master the pattern, the routine. Exhaustion still clings to me like a second skin. Food, even when I do obtain some of decent quality, is handed off the Fenris. Far better for him to eat it and be strong for it than to waste it as I have been.

Before everything, before the Blight, I was soft with weight and inactivity. Now, now I cannot summon the energy to care even as my muscles harden and my skin scars. Fenris watches me sometimes and I see worry crease his brow. The lessons have begun to lighten. He has begun to refuse the food I hand to him. I find another, a girl, a woman too thin after pregnancy, someone, anyone to take the food I otherwise waste. Zev would force me to eat it, but he isn't here. None of them are.

_Remember. Stop. _

_Golden eyes washed of color. _

_Remember. Suppress. _

_A smile too distant to touch. _

_Stop. Suppress. _

_Live in the here and now. Look for a chance._

_Survive. What for? _

_Just because._

_Fight to remember, fight to forget, cycle, circle, begin again._

* * *

News has begun to trickle in about the Blight. Some of Danarius's guests think it was just a large surge of darkspawn, others argue that they actually _felt_ the shockwaves of magic from the killing blow struck to the Archdemon. No one talks about the Blight companions, the role of the Grey Wardens, not around me. Not until they're drunk on wine and Danarius is looking else where.

"The Chantry's pet king," one whispers to another over a glass of red wine. "Make no mistake the Chantry will be attempting to exert all their influence over that one now they've got one of their Templars on a throne."

_Spark. Hope. Suppress._

"Well, a Templar king will certainly inflate their ego," the other snorted. "When they reach beyond themselves, we'll be ready."

"I heard the Templar king was also the Warden that-"

The slackening of the muscles in my hand. _Disbelief_._ Spark. Suppress. No. Can't be true. _A crash, the slopping of wine against their robes and across the expensive rug. The trickling of the liquid from the rug onto the hard wood floors and the scrambling on hands and knees to catch, to contain, to stop the flow. The mages made disgusted noises and stood from their seats, calling to Danarius at the other end of the table, "Your slave is a brainless whore. Perhaps you would do better to replace her."

Danarius' eyes glittered with the promise of retribution as he smiled and made his apologies. Fenris was sent for and the narrowing of his gaze and the slight shake of head he gave me was enough to confirm what I suspected. There would be an apology in the form of loaning me to one or both of them for the night. It didn't matter as I slipped through the servant's door with my heart pounding in my ears.

_Alistair. King. Survived._

It echoed in my head, made my vision blur and my heart thud wildly. The Landsmeet had been _successful_ and Alistair was _king_. If he had survived the Blight to become king then that meant that the Archedemon really had been slain. _Magisters_ and _lies_ and _hope_ and _no_ warred for space.

In the hall, isolated from the other servants and away from the eyes of the guests, I lean against the wall and press a hand against my chest. Inhale, exhale. Remember, recall. Golden eyes and words from training. Y_ou _must_ always be calm and ready for an attack that could come from everywhere. _One of the earliest lessons Zev taught me when I discovered the Arcane discipline. _Control is key. You must control your reactions and your senses. _Heart rate slows, breathing evens out. _Focus on the here and now, otherwise there will be no later. Ready?_

As ready as I can be. Here and now, there is only the next moment, the next move. I dropped a pitcher of wine on guests. The next step is to make ready for some sort of punishment. Knowing these Magisters, remembering the way their eyes lingered, I know what it is. Fenris already confirmed that by the look he gave me.

* * *

Fenris is the one to fetch me from the slave quarters. I'm already done preparing. I wear a borrowed dress and am clean. Surprise is barely concealed in his eyes as he studies me. No words. He already understands, already knows. How can he not?

Instead, he says, "The Master has determined that for your actions you are to attend to the two that you offended. You will find them in the guest quarters, third door on the left." Here he hesitates, studies me, steps back. "If you do not report to me by seven hours after dawn, I will collect you from their quarters." It is a warning of what they might be capable of, what they may require of me.

I smile, something cracking along the edges of my personality. "Of course."

The mages, ironically, are lovers. I don't know if that makes this easier or worse when they admit me into their room.

* * *

Seven hours after dawn come and go. I am deposited outside the door and Fenris is there as he promised. Not Zev, not even close, but good enough. Strong arms around me, the warmth of another body seeping into bones chilled by time. For once dreams do not haunt me, memories do not hurt.

* * *

These people, these _human_ mages that dress in colorful robes and decorate themselves with fine jewels and expensive paints are treacherous like pariahs no matter that they try to set themselves apart. They dance around each other, exchange coy words, wrap around those that are stronger, slink, and talk. This is a _social event_.

Hadriana was unexpectedly excited for this one. She called just me to her chambers to prepare her for this event at dawn. Between the hair and helping her to don the complicated dress she was barely ready in time. _Why_ she called just me, I will never understand. Unless the torture and breaking of a _slave_ she was personally involved in is her way of "bonding" then I _really_ don't want to know. Hell, she didn't even talk to me outside of issuing commands and criticizing the way I piled her hair, placed the jewels, and positioned the dress.

Movement to the left draws me back to reality. The Magisters at this event were each allowed one servant or guard. Most chose to dismiss their servant or guard to the serving quarters after their arrival, but Danarius was one to decide to bring his with him. Fenris was his choice as a servant and Hadriana was instructed to bring me. His apprentice circles around him in a roundabout manner that takes her from one side of the hall to the other and back again, all the while without directly crossing his path. She talks to some, titters at others, laughs with them all.

Movement to the left catches my eye again. A shape passes behind one of the side pillars, lingers, moves on. It is too tall to be a child, too lean to be a warrior. My hand itches for the feel of a familiar dagger, the weight of a sword, a _weapon. _The shadow circles, I watch it and eye Fenris across the room. He glances in my direction, then at the shadow. Good. He's seen it. No one else seems to have noticed.

Shadows part, I glimpse copper skin. Too light to be Zev, but close. Antivan, perhaps. _Crow. Assassin. _Haze parting, adrenaline rushing. Thrill for a fight, for a chance for _blood._ Fenris catches my eye again, he is subtly changing Danarius' course, insinuating his body between one guest and his master, sliding between one desired direction and making others turn from the presence of a slave.

Guests shift between us. Fenris is blocked from view. I try and mimic what he was doing. Insinuate my body into the path of a guest, turn Hadriana's curse towards the exit. Her sharp eyes narrow at me, dart to Fenris to see them closer to the door and she makes her excuses, makes her pardons, and leaves for the bathroom. She falls into step behind Danarius and we escort them from the hall right before the screams begin.


End file.
